The Golden Downtown
The road to the Citadel of Aethelgard was not paved with stone, but with the compressed silence of ten thousand unanswered prayers. I walked it for three days, my boots sinking into the mud that smelled of old iron and wet ash. I was not a hero. I was Thomas Bradshaw, a clerk from the lower districts, a man who spent his days sorting ledgers and his nights staring at the ceiling, waiting for a...
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